


Throttle

by Blackwatch_McCree



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 21:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7730305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackwatch_McCree/pseuds/Blackwatch_McCree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disobedience demands discipline, and Reyes's lessons are never kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throttle

You and Commander Reyes are the same height, but he’s long mastered the art of seeming much bigger than he is; towering over you as you’re slumped against the wall, he looks down his nose at you like you’re a bug on the ground. His feet are planted on each side of your knees. He’s still wearing his dress shoes from the ceremony this morning.

Your cheek is throbbing, and your lip is split. Reyes has your belt swaying in his right hand, the golden buckle flecked with blood and spit from when it slammed into your face as soon as the hotel door clicked behind you. His left hand is balled into a fist so tight his tendons are popping out against his knuckles.

“So,” He starts, voice colder than permafrost. Years ago, this tone would have sent shivers of fear down your spine. Now, all you feel is anticipation. “Tell me again why you thought it was a good idea to wear this fucking embarrassment to the televised UN award ceremony. To get your picture taken in it standing an arm’s length from the President. Represent Overwatch and everything I’ve helped build wearing,” he jangles the belt, “this goddamn abomination.”

You slump against the wall and lick the blood off your teeth. There’s not really a good response; Reyes told you to dress professionally, specifically instructed you to leave “that cowboy shit” at home, and you wore it anyway. Technically, it’s pure insubordination. Legally, Reyes can court-martial you over a belt. Secretly, you were hoping for this reaction, and you smirk up at him with a bloody smile.

“Frankly,” you drawl, nice and slow, “I thought I looked mighty fine in that picture.”

Reyes’s eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. You’ve been around him long enough to know that you’ve managed to hit a nerve. You’re getting good at this, or maybe Reyes is just easier to bait than he’d ever admit. The Blackwatch Commander’s temper is nothing if not incendiary, and at this point, you know that all you have to do is spark Reyes’s ire; the rest is sitting back and watching him ignite.

“So _that’s_ it,” Reyes says, voice more a croon than a lilt of surprise. “This is what you want, isn’t it, fucking whore.”

It’s not a question, more of a statement, and you know better than to talk back anyway. You wipe your split lip with the back of your hand but mostly just manage to smear blood all over your mouth. Your teeth grit instinctively as Reyes raises the belt again, eyes squeezing shut. Last time, it caught you off-guard and sent stars spiraling in your vision. The thing’s damn heavy for a belt buckle.

You brace for impact, but the impact doesn’t come. Instead, there's the cool slide of leather against your neck, the weight of gold against your throat. Your eyes open to see Reyes straightening back up, staring down at you.

“You know what, kid?” He finally says, and you briefly wonder how many more combat missions you'll have to complete before he stops calling you that. “I think you're right. I think it fits you.”

Your mouth is dry but you try to swallow anyway. There's a dangerous gleam in Reyes's eyes, the kind that’s always unnerved you a little bit, the kind that makes you look to his left when you hand him a sledgehammer and listen to your interrogation target scream. He only looks at you like this in one of two scenarios: when he's about to fuck you up, or when he's about to fuck you.

You hope for the second, but it’s usually the first.

The belt rests on your clavicle for now, slack against the bottom of your neck. It feels like a particularly thick collar. The inside of the leather is rough. It’s looped around so that the metal buckle faces the front but Reyes only needs one hand to pull it tight. He tugs on it experimentally; the leather tightens like a noose, the buckle pressing hard against your jugular, and you gasp in reflex.

Reyes hums, and a dangerous smile crosses his face. Now you’re worried you’ve pushed him too far; the smiles he gives you aren’t the smiles he gives Morrison. The Strike Commander gets soft warmth - the corners of Reyes’s eyes crinkle and lift when Morrison enters the room. Laying against the hotel wall with blood dripping onto your white button-down, you get barbed smugness lined with sharp teeth. But that’s just how you like it, isn’t it? It’s how you like everything - edged in danger.

“In fact, it doesn’t just fit you. It looks good like this. You look…” Reyes’s eyes flick over you twice, “... like the dog you are, disciplined like you need to be.”

“Woof,” You respond dryly. “Woof, woo-”

Reyes tightens the belt and your voice cuts off in a strangled choke. He lets you struggle for a while, watches you twist and buck, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. When you raise a hand to the belt around your neck he lets it go slack, kicking your hand back down to the floor and pressing his weight against your fingers.

“Who said you could do that?” he snarls. The smile is gone now. He grinds your fingers into the carpet. If this was his office with its hardwood floors, this might hurt. As it is, your fingers sink into the plush carpet and though the flat of Reyes’s heel scrapes at the thin skin on your knuckles, at this point you barely notice.

You don’t let your opportunity go to waste though, gasping in air greedily like there’s only so much left in the world. Your gasps fill the room as you go a little lightheaded from your forced hyperventilation; the bottom of your feet tingle, prickles of static in your soles.

Your caution isn’t wasted; as soon as your breathing starts to slow a bit, the belt restricts again and you’re struggling against it. Palms flat on the ground this time, Reyes gives you the smallest ounce of space to try and breathe. It’s like gasping through a coffee straw, and soon the tingling in your feet disappears and you’re mouthing at the air again.

Reyes looks down at you with liquid fire in his eyes. “But I think I like you better like this,” he croons. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you could almost think the tone is a tender one. But you’ve seen a side of Reyes that he keeps carefully hidden even from Morrison, the side that only comes out in these private moments, and you know that his voice is laced with both aphrodisiac and arsenic. You know these things, but you’re affected anyway.

Because Reyes is right, you’re nothing better than a dog begging at the feet of a master who’s kicked you, and you’ll happily lap up any scrap thrown your way. Even now, Reyes chuckles at you and you feel the sound vibrate down the belt and into your neck. It thrums into your blood, races through your body. You gasp again but this time you can’t help but moan too as you can feel yourself straining against your pants. It’s a natural reaction to asphyxiation, you’d argue, you’ve seen this happen all the time to interrogation targets, but you know _your_ reaction is to Reyes.

Of course he notices, because it’s obvious and you have no way of hiding the tent in your pants. Normally Reyes would ignore you, but this time he lifts the foot from your hand on the floor and presses it against your crotch, the soles of his shoes resting along the length of your cock.

You try to whimper as black begins to spot the edge of your vision. You want to thrust upwards and there’s no way you’d be allowed to.

Reyes loosens the belt and you gasp in air again, moaning and whimpering as he grinds his heel into the base of your throbbing cock. You shouldn’t be wasting air making as much noise as you are but you know it turns Reyes on and the better mood he’s in, the better a chance you have underneath him.

“Commander,” You whimper, voice scratchy and sore from the belt. Reyes presses his foot down and you reflexively buck your hips upwards into him. You’re dribbling cum through your boxers and into your pants, a dark wet spot just to the right of the zipper. He’s tapping his fingers against the leather of your belt, contemplating you beneath him. You moan for him again and take a sharp breath as the belt tightens once more.

This time, there’s no room to breathe at all. You can gasp as hard as you want, the muscles of your neck straining against the thick leather, but there’s no give. From how hard Reyes is pulling at the belt, he might as well be trying to decapitate you with your own belt. Meanwhile, he’s just barely moving his foot against your groin, grinding down on it like it’s a dropped cigarette.

Your lungs are on fire, your diaphragm heaving in desperation to draw some air in. The black that’s been dancing around your vision is blooming, closing in as your eyelids flutter. Your body is drawn tight as the stretched leather in your belt; you can feel your heart pounding in the throb of the bruise on your cheek. And the whole time there’s Reyes’s foot grinding, grinding, grinding, the toe of his shoe just brushing against the clothed head of your cock, the heel barely pressing against the top of your balls. You’re hanging between the burning pain of imminent asphyxiation and the roaring pleasure of Reyes’s foot pressing into your crotch. You’re a coil wound so tight any feather-touch could break it.

“Cum and you can breathe,” Reyes says. It’s not an offer - more of a command. You thrust your hips again, vision beginning to fade as your tongue lolls out your mouth and over your split lip. Reyes is unconcerned as he asks, voice mocking, “So are you going to die here, dog? Or are you going to cum for me, under my heel, in those expensive pants we bought you?”

In the baritone growl of his lilting voice, you find your breaking point. Your body jerks, rigid, as darkness finally envelops your vision; every muscle tightens in reflex, and you spill into your pants, the dark stain next to your zipper blossoming as your cock twitches and pumps cum into the fabric. Pleasure more intense than any you've felt before overrides your burning lungs and screaming throat for one blissful, incredible second, before it fades away as quickly as it peaked and you're left heaving for air again. Reyes waits until you collapse and slump against the wall before loosening the slack on the belt. It falls back onto your collarbone and the first breath of air you take makes you more lightheaded than anything before.

You fall onto your side, landing on your mechanical arm. Breathing hurts like hell; you try to swallow but your throat is too bruised, the muscles too weak to move. Every breath is punctuated by a silent sob that makes no noise because you can’t even think about speaking right now. There are tears you didn’t notice before falling down the side of your face. Angela won’t ask or tell, but you dread going to her anyway.

Reyes stands over you, looking down at you as you hiccup in as many deep breaths as you can possibly manage. His smile is barbed with smugness and sharp teeth. You look to his left as you feel the prickle of static in your soles and the shiver of fear down your spine. 


End file.
